


The Landlord's Daughter

by Ambrosia29



Category: The Highwayman - Alfred Noyes, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family Fluff, Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-13 08:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5702137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambrosia29/pseuds/Ambrosia29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl's bike dies on him in the middle of nowhere, so he walks the miles into town. He turns down the first road with a home at the end, a single candle burning in an upstairs window. He doesn't expect a welcome greeting but neither does he expect the greeting he does receive - nor the young woman it came from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Up to the Old Inn Door

 

_The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees._

_The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas._

_The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,_

_And the highwayman came riding—_

_Riding—riding—_

_The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door._ – Alfred Noyes

 

 

 

The road behind him was long and winding. Hours earlier his bike had taken a hit of some kind – the thing had made a sound like a gunshot and he’d nearly broke his neck falling from it. First time in forever since that’d last happened. Begrudgingly, he picked it up and walked alongside the unfaithful mount.

 

The night was clear but for a mist forming in the lower points of landscape and ditches on either side of the road. It eddied in the breeze that ruffled through the trees and teased his hair. It raised goose-flesh along his shoulders as it fingered its way down his neck and he wished inwardly for someplace warm to rest his head. In the distance, winking in the wind, there was a light. In contrast to the pale moon above, it was golden. Warm.

 

 _Maybe there’s a phone…_ he thought

 

Determination and hope gave his steps new strength.

 

* * *

 

 

She combed her hair, slicking it back from her forehead. The warmth from the water suffused her skin and made her glow. She’d lit the candle and used it for illumination, its softer light less likely to disturb others or attract attention this late at night.

 

The moon streamed silver against the golden hues of the fire, casting the night outside in a beautiful wash of pale blue, creating silvery shadows among the leaves in the trees. She leaned against the windowsill and absently trailed her fingers through her hair, relaxing as she wove the wet strands into a braid. Her fingers slowed, eyes grew more focused as movement below caught more and more of her attention.

 

In the line of trees, parted by a narrow road, there was something among the shadows. She listened, straining to hear the animals in the barn. They were silent; it couldn’t be a predator. It was smaller than a deer. As it grew closer she thought for a moment that it was a pony but then it turned and walked down the path toward her home. She waited with baited breath, anticipation kindling a spark along her skin.

 

Her gut clenched with nerves and she took a deep breath, waiting for the figure to emerge from the mists closer to the house. It wasn’t too close, there were at least a hundred yards between the upward slope and the porch. Breathing again once it emerged, still on the path, her relieved breath caught again as she registered the figure of a man.

 

A man walking alongside a motorcycle.

 

Who appeared to be looking up at _her_.

 

In the brighter light of the moon, she could see him clearly. He wore jeans and a leather jacket over whatever was beneath, zippered against the cold. His breath puffed in soft clouds and joined the cigarette smoke be blew before him. The cherry glowed brightly as he sucked at it, illuminating eyes which seemed to see her even at that distance. Her heart raced and for a moment, she imagined she heard galloping hooves from far off, imagined she could see his heated eyes. The long hair topped with a feathered hat, tilted in a way that gave his rake's mien a merry air. 

 

She blinked and saw a strange man, a dangerous-looking man, walking silently toward her home in the dark.

 

Moving from the window, she blew out the candle and walked to the bedroom door, flicking on the hall light as she emerged. “Daddy!” she called, “There’s someone at the door.”

 


	2. Clashed in the Dark Inn-Yard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wasn't expecting this to go any further than a oneshot but apparently my storytelling style won't let me do more than smut as a oneshot. Sigh. So here I am, another project upon the table. I hope you're all enjoying this! I know I am. Trying to write as much as possible before massage school starts. Next week. Enjoy!

The lights flicked on within the house and he heard voices raised. He slowed, snuffing out the cigarette against his glove as the door opened, spilling light out into the night.

 

He couldn’t see beyond the sudden glare except for a slender shadow stepping out into the silvering moonlight. It coalesced into the figure of a young girl – woman, he thought to himself – stepping forward to the edge of the porch and looking down upon him.

 

“What’re you doing here?” she asked. He blinked, mind suddenly blank. The weight of the bike shifting against his thigh reminded him.

 

“D’ya have a phone? Bike broke down a few miles back.”

 

“Yeah,” said the girl. She took herself down the steps and walked toward him without fear, holding out her slender wrist. Up close, she looked so pale she could’ve been a ghost. Her eyes, silver in the light, held his gently. Her hair was combed back from her face and wet, its heavy braid dripping water onto her shoulder, touched with warm gold.

 

An image came unbidden of another set of eyes and hair, both dark in a pale, rosy-lipped face. With it came the sense of the ground dropping from under him.

 

“You alright, Mr…?”

 

He started and glanced down at the pone dangling from her fingers, eyebrows rising slightly when he took in the pocket knife in her other hand. _Smart girl._

“Um. Dixon,” he said uncomfortably, taking the phone.

 

“ _Bethany_.” Another figure appeared in the doorway and he resisted the urge to backpedal away from her. She jumped, taking a couple steps back as a larger form came down the porch, resolving into an older man with thin white hair and a denim jacket pulled hastily over his nightclothes. _Probably her father._

 

His clothes didn’t make the shotgun any less intimidating. It wasn’t raised and although its presence was an imposing one, it didn’t compare to the look of anger on the man’s face.

 

“What’re you doing here?” the man barked. Bethany stepped back and into her father’s side.

 

“Daddy,” she said soothingly, “he just needs a phone. His bike broke down.”

 

The shotgun gestured to the bike as he said tersely, “This’s so?”

 

He nodded, holding up the phone and resisting the urge to raise the other like a criminal being held at gunpoint. “Yeah.”

 

“Well, go on then, make your phonecall.” He lowered the gun and paused for a moment, regarding the stranger on his property. “What’s your name, son?”

 

“Daryl. Dixon. Yours, sir?”

 

“I’m Hershel Greene, this here’s my daughter, Beth.” He took a breath and let out a heavy sigh, seeming to sag into his shoulders. “Look, I’m not meaning to be inhospitable but I don’t know you from Adam. Said your bike broke down?” He nodded at the machine.

 

“Yeah. Few miles back.”

 

Hershel gestured with a nod of his head to the house. "Come on up to the porch and make what calls you need. Beth, you go on inside now. I’ve got this handled.” She nodded and made for the house, taking the steps like a bird, she was so light on her feet. He avoided watching her over her daddy’s shoulder but noted it when she turned to glance back at him just before heading inside.

 

“Mind if I…?” he left the question unfinished, allowing his gesture to the bike ask for him.

 

Hershel lisfted a careless arm and gestured to the fence. "Lean it over there. Kickstand not workin' then?” Daryl shook his head and pushed the infernal freedom machine toward the fence.

 

“Nah.”

 

“Want some help?”

 

“Nah, got it.”

 

He maneuvered the bike so it leaned against a fence-post, giving it an affectionate stroke over the seat as he moved away toward the house again. All of the lights were blazing and he could see other figured silhouetted against the windows, one male and one female. The feminine shadow was taller than Beth’s, confirmed not-hers as he watched her flicker from an interior room and pass behind it, carrying something.

 

As he reached the top of the porch, Hershel gestured to the bench, so he sat down there. Beth emerged, holding a couple steaming mugs. Hershel gave her a look when she pressed one of them into his reluctant hands and stretched out to give him the other.

 

His eyes took in hers, darker blue in the light streaming out from the interior and warmer. His arm ached as he took the mug, fingertips brushing hers, light as a feather. Light as a feather but something in his chest warmed at the contact, a knot he hadn’t known was in his throat loosening as he murmured a quiet, “thank ya.”

 

She looked at his sleeve as he brought the mug to his lips, studying it with a small frown. The frown deepens as she trailed from his arm and over his shoulder down to his jeans. She drew in a breath as she registered what he knew she must be seeing.

 

“Oh, my God,” she breathed, reaching back a hand to Hershel’s elbow while she looked for his eyes behind the fringe of his hair, “are you alright?” Hershel stepped closer, examining him as well.

 

Daryl gritted his teeth against the upcoming out-pour of pity. “M’fine.” Hershel stepped closer and blatantly, brusquely gave him a once-over.

 

“You’re gonna have to get that looked at, son.”

 

He resisted glaring at the man. It was sitting behind him against the wall, but the man had an air of determination and a shotgun. Didn’t mean he couldn’t disagree with him. He looked up at him to do so and his argument withered unspoken on his tongue. Hershel looked at him for a long moment, eyes stern and wavering between anger and something like kindness.

 

Kindness must’ve won. “C’mon,” Hershel said with resignation, “get your ass into the house. Beth, get the hot water goin' and some clean towels and meet me in the downstairs bathroom.” He was thusly ushered into the house by a man who didn’t seem to like him but nonetheless brought him into better light to examine his wounds.

 

It was turning into a weird night.


	3. His Face Was White and Peaked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the Kudos and reviews! I really wans't expecting this to do nearly what it seems to be becoming. I've started massage school and am loving it, though I still need to find another job in a week or two (I hope!) so I can KEEP going to classes.
> 
> Updated might be once per week, more if the muse strikes me and I can stop reading Dynamicsymmetry and Schwoozie long enough to write anything. Love their work, you *might* see some influence here or there though its not intentional at all.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

Beth rushed into the house to do as her daddy had asked, whisking past her siblings in the front room. Maggie’s eyes met Beth’s worriedly as she rushed past. The kitchen was still lit from when Beth had gathered the tea; the water was still hot. She removed it from the kettle and into a shallow bowl, filling it with more water and set it to boil on the stovetop.

 

_Daryl._

When she emerged, the men – somehow she didn’t include her brother – were in the back room, Daddy helping the younger out of his jacket. Maggie clutched the shotgun behind her.

 

Beth looked at Maggie when she handed her a stack of white towels. White. Not that it mattered – they were likely from the supply closet daddy kept for work-related emergencies.

 

Maggie glanced down at Beth’s hands as she followed her into the kitchen, speaking in a low voice, “What’s daddy doing, bringing that guy in here?”

 

“He’s injured.” Maggie’s eyes widened a little, glancing to the hallway the biker had been ushered down.

 

“So why not go to the hospital? What kind of injuries?”

 

Beth rolls her eyes. “I don’t know, Maggie. He’s a biker or something. Looked like road rash.” Maggie’s eyes widened slightly and looked down at the floor as if expecting a trail of blood.

 

“Must not be too bad, if he’s able to walk.”

 

“Guess we’ll find out. He looks tough. Might not show how bad off he is.” She filled the pot with water from the refrigerator and placed it on the stovetop, flicking the flame to the highest setting and watching the blue flame erupt with a small whooshing sound.

 

“Yeah, seems the type.” Maggie’s voice lowers and she whispers into Beth’s ear from inches away, “Why’d ya think Daddy acted like that? Got so angry with the guy? Never seen ‘im like that.”

 

Beth shrugged. “Worried maybe?” she bit her lip, an unconscious echo of Maggie’s own expression. “Because I was out there, with’m?” Maggie’s eyes settled on her siblings and focused a little more. Beth felt like she was trying to see inside her soul. No judgement there, only bewilderment.

 

“Why did you, Bethy? Go out there?”

 

She shrugged. “I’m not really sure. Just…don’t think he’s a danger. I mean, he looks dangerous, sure, but I –

 

Her voice died away as Maggie’s eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open.

 

“You were the one who spotted ‘im outside! Why’d you go?”

 

She turned to regard the elder sibling. Her brow was furrowed, making unnatural shadows of her resolute eyes.

 

Beth turned back to the men in the back room, feeling a pull to join them, to help her father as he ministered to the wounded man. As if against her will, she found herself taking a step forward.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

On those words, she found herself pulled with increasing certainty into the brighter light.

 

 

~

 

When she entered Daryl was naked from the waist up, Hershel helping himself peel out of his jeans. They exchanged quiet glares and warning looks as the pain fared greater with each flex and twist. The jacket hadn’t been nearly this bad but he supposed it has something to do with the ability of leather to handle absorption.

 

Meaning it didn’t. Not the way denim did.

 

The material stuck to his outer thigh and he gritted his teeth, thankful it didn’t hurt to turn his head away and hide the pain blossoming on his features. It was worse than he’d thought. No idea how long he’d walked and getting up to retrieve the bike and keep going had been like second nature, an obvious next step.

 

It’s not like he hadn’t known – how could he otherwise? – but the extent of it…

 

Hershel adjusted the lamp on the bedside table, such as it was, and let out a low whistle as he regarded the younger man.

 

_Scrape_ didn’t begin to cover it. He winced again as Hershel gently drew his arm up, better to see his side. So, it was there too. Knew without looking that it was bad. His entire side felt like ground fuckin’ meat.

 

A silent presence entered, pressed cloth to Hershel’s hand and laid a bowl of steaming something beside the lamp with wide blue eyes. She withdrew just as silently, but only to the doorway. Still looking.

 

Daryl looked down and away at the molding along the edges of the wall, avoiding her wide eyes. It wasn’t the pity he saw there – there wasn’t any – so much as the depth of concern there. Enough to drown in, so he stared at the floor.

 

Hershel took up the bowl and sank the cloth into it, wrung it out in a fist he couldn’t help notice turned white and glanced apology at him. “Beth,” he said, “Go get the alcohol Maggie keeps in her room. The one she thinks I don’t know about.”

 

Daryl watched as the girl blinked in surprise and backed out of the door.

 

“Y’need a hospital, son,” Hershel said in the placid voice of a man slipping into the task at hand. He helped him lean on his side and fought himself to allow it. He didn’t have much more to do other than _feel the burn_ as the warm interior ensured that he would.

 

“Ain’t happenin’ old man.”

 

“Insurance?”

 

Daryl gave him a look that said it all.

 

Beth returned with a bottle of something clear in an equally clear bottle and he looked at it with interest, hoping. Hershel noted it and shook his head, taking it without expression.

 

“Sorry son,” he poured a measure into the hot water, “that’s not what it’s for.”

 

His ‘tender ministrations’ stung like a bitch.

 

 

 


	4. Black Cascade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has been enjoying this story and reviewing! The feedback really does help, I've been pleasantly surprised at how this is both coming along and how much you all are enjoying it! I am too. This chapter surprised me, wasn't at all where I was planning it to go but here it is, enjoy!

 

In the end, he did end up snatching the bottle and taking a deep draft of what turned out to be vodka. Thankfully it was shortly after that he passed out. Beth craned her neck over her daddy’s shoulder and watched, reaching out to adjust the lamp so more light fell on the prone man.

“Is he okay?”

Hershel continued to clean the wound, bending low over the dark figure to examine. “Yeah, jus’ passed out. Best he did, too, while I get this takin care of.” He paused, blinking hard. “Beth, come ‘ere a moment,” he said softly. She slides away from the wall and steps closer to the bed, kneeling beside her father.

Where at first she tried not to look at the lines and planes made of his obvious strength her daddy needed her and this man was injured. She put it away, pushed the observation into a dark corner in her mind and focused on the task at hand.

‘M’havin a hard time seein’ anything.” He gestured to the long swath of scraped skin and squeezed the now-pink water from the equally pink cloth. “Is the wound clean? Nothing’s stuck in there you can see?”

“Want me to get your glasses?”

“Just tell me, Bethy, you do good enough with the horses.”

She leans in, feeling a wave of heat warm her face as she examines the wound with a certain detachment. Blood is still seeping from the marred flesh, angry red and paler pink streaks of flesh against surprisingly pale skin. But no debris. Glancing at it, she notes the bits of grit and dirt and dust in the bottom of the bowl, clinging to the threads of wash-cloth in her daddy’s hands.

“No, you still got it Daddy.”

He harrumphs quietly and stands. She follows suit but doesn’t move to follow him out the door.

“Shouldn’t we bandage ‘im?” He turns back and blinks once, slowly. His brow draws down on her in a sort of perplexed frown and he rubs his jaw with his hand, scratching at his beard.

“Think y’can handle it?” He looks down at the prone stranger, eyes distant and clouded like a gathering storm but all at once it blows over on a sigh of air. The lines of his face have become more pronounced, eyes heavy, shoulders very near a slump.

She blinks at him, breath catching in her throat. “Y’can handle it,” he says assuringly. “Go get some of those herbs you mother collected in the cellar.”

Dumbly she nods and does as she is told. When she returns its Hershel who is standing in the doorway, Hershel who is watching her work in the kitchen to make the herbs into a poultice.

She grinds the pungent, sweet flowers and leaves in the mortar while he watches and sighs. “You look like her,” he says quietly.

Stone grinds stone steadily. “Hmm?”

“Y’look like your mother.” They remain silent for several long moments while she works, pulling the kettle from the stovetop before the whistle gets too loud. The herbs are nearly powdered under the subtle strength of her forearm. “She would’ve welcomed that young man.”

She pauses for a moment, kneeling to retrieve a metal bowl from beneath the counter and grabbing a cloth to wipe it out before setting it down. She doesn’t look at her daddy but knows he’s watching her all the same, moving like a sprite through the soft golden glow of the kitchen lights.

“Why didn’t you?” she asks into the stillness. The stillness follows for a few more moments. 

_Does he even know?_

“Middle of the night, stranger comes carrying God-knows-what to our home, my children. Could’ve been a threat.”

“But he’s injured.”

“Didn’t know that, then. Don’t think it matters much; that man’s trouble Bethy.”

“Don’t know that now, either.”

He’s silent and she glances back, wondering silently why she’s so determined to defend this man –

_The moonlight streams down, illuminating a face she’s seen a thousand times. But the glow in his eyes isn’t accounted for by its light. Those eyes, filled with such tenderness –_

“Bethy?” Hershel is standing next to her, hand gently gripping her elbow. She blinks up at him and waits for a mild vertigo to pass. “You okay, Doodlebug?”

“Yeah,” she says softly. She takes a breath and shakes her head to clear it, “Yeah m’fine, Daddy.” She leans up and gives him a peck on the cheek. “Just tired.”

“I’ll take over –

“No, I got it. Dress the wound, got the tape and ointment from the bathroom when it’s finished. You go to bed, Daddy I’ll be fine. He’s not gonna be moving too much, I think.”

He stands there for a moment, a small smile making his eyes crinkle and look a little younger. She smiled back, pleased by the pride in his eyes. “Come get me as soon as he wakes.” She nods and gives him a quick hug before turning back to her work.

_Why’re you defending him?_

_Why’d you go outside to meet him?_

_I don’t know._

 


	5. A Bunch of Lace at His Chin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter surprised the hell out of me. So I hope you enjoy. Warning: kinda fluffy. Actually its REALLY fluffy. Kinda loving the hell out of it. Thank you all so much for sending me your thoughts and intrigue-feelings when reading this, it makes my day, makes me smile and galvanized me into further fits of writing.

And then there was light. It was there, behind eyelids not yet opened and he slowly came aware of something soft pressing his cheek. He shifted his face a little, realizing it wasn’t pressed to him, he was laying on it. Soft. Comfortable.

Taking stock of sensations – cloth against skin in more areas than he’d be comfortable with later, something rustling over him as he shifted slowly and a pervasive ache in his side and lower – he realized he was lying in a bed. A comfortable bed.

_Well that’s weird._

He sighed and leaned back for a moment, taking simple pleasure in his seldom-enjoyed comfort.

_If I had a single bone of poetry in me I’d think it’s like sleeping in a cloud. Maybe it’s a pinkie. Haven’t broken the left one yet…_

Eyes still closed he listened for the familiar sounds of his brother and found none. Gone were the telltale snores, gone was the scent of stale whiskey and cigarette smoke – none at all in fact, a minor disappointment when he realized he wanted one – replaced by something different. Smells of something incredibly floral and spicy, both soothing and stimulating. Sounds of breathing, soft steps of someone trying to be quiet and the barest _tink_ of...

_What?_

He opened his eyes and was blinded.

Sun-gold hair tied up in an attempt to contain a loosely-curling mass which draped over a shoulder, eyes such a deep blue he’d have sworn he’d fallen into the sea. A smile –

_Lips upturned into a smile, the color of a deep pink rose and just as sweet, he knew they’d be. His heart ached as he looked upon her, the dark eyes shining bright in pale skin against the richness of her midnight hair –_

“Are you okay?”

He sucked in a deep breath, hand absently batting the lace-lined coverlet at his shoulder while he fought to contain the sudden pain blossoming in his chest. His brow furrowed and lifted, palm pressing his sternum, glancing out the window at the dawn.

“Y-yeah, gimme a minute.” Okay he could talk. That was good. He glanced at her cautiously, waiting for vertigo or an ache or _something_ unusual to happen to him. Nothing. Noting that she was beautiful, an observation more than anything else, he pushed away the stupid frilly blanket with his right arm and himself upward with his left.

Pain lanced his side and he hissed, scrunching his face in surprised pain. He heard more than saw the girl – _Beth,_ his memory suddenly supplied – take the short steps to reach his side and felt the warmth of her hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down to the pillows.

“Lie back,” she said redundantly, “I need to check your bandage anyway and you’ll need to take these.” He looked up at her insistently patient eyes and down at her hand where it hovered between them. Though the left was still on his shoulder, her right was holding familiar pills. Painkillers.

_Thank God._

He eagerly took them from her, muttering a thanks and swallowing them dry before she’d completed a reach for the bedside table. He followed her movements as he lifted her proffered glass to his lips and chased the pills further down with water.

The bedside table was simple and held a small pitcher and bowl with a collection of what looked like rolled cloth. Against the wall beyond it was a dresser, the low top of which held a collection of bandaging tape, gauze, medical scissors and bowl containing God-knows-what.

There was also what looked like a tray of food. With a couple glasses and a pitcher of what could only be orange juice. Whatever else was on it was suddenly less important when Beth began pulling away the coverlet and he awkwardly remembered how very naked beneath it he was.

He reached for it as she pulled and for a moment it was taught between them. She met his eyes, open and surprised but kind, an assuring smile on her face.

“No reason to be modest Daryl, I’m the one who dressed it last night.” He blinked, processing that and shifted, taking the cloth and flipping it aside, revealing just enough of himself to expose the side she needed. “Might need ya to turn on your side so I can reach it better,” she said absently, kneeling beside him on the mattress to examine the edges of the bandaging.

A lump formed in his throat and he fought to remain relaxed as she ghosted surprisingly gentle fingers over the bandage, ignoring the tingle of goosebumps chasing her touch.

“Rather not,” he said simply.

Her eyebrows rose in silent question and she glanced up at him from her perch but said nothing, only nodded. “Okay.”

In the end she made him shift more of the blanket down his hip – counting his blessings for the presence of a familiar undergarment – and closer to the edge of the mattress. It was a fair exchange, to keep his demons private in front of the strangely-familiar girl.

As she worked, he contemplated that. While she moved with an ease which bespoke of a natural sense of confidence, her familiarity with him was a little unsettling. It was more than what had happened last night, more than the bandaging she removed – apparently _he_ was what smelled so damned flowery – and the wound she examined.

It was in the way she’d brought him the tea the night before – yes it was starting to come back to him, cloudiness of sleep gone in the instant she’d reached for the blanket – and the ease in her when she’d handed him her phone, the way she’d trusted him enough to defend him when her Daddy had met them in her front yard.

She was silent as she worked, focused. When she turned to the collection of tools and his stomach growled, she reached for the food tray and instead grabbed a piece of toast with some kind of jam on it and handed it to him.

“Go ahead and munch on that, I’ll be done in a few minutes.”

The crunch was sweetened with a burst of raspberries. He suppressed a small groan and took a larger bite, chewing slower than before. “ _Damn_ , that’s good.” He couldn’t help the tone of surprise.

She smiled brightly and the early morning dawn through the window was suddenly less beautiful than before, overshadowed. “Glad you like it.” He glanced down at her and lifted his elbow out of the way with her directing fingers.

He also lifted an eyebrow, insight taking him suddenly. “Y’made it?” She tilted her head slightly with the force of her light blush and deeper smile.

“Yeah.” She got up and turned to the pitcher, pouring out a measure of what was apparently water. It steamed slightly in the faintly crisp air of the room. Her movements now measured and deliberate, he watched transfixed as she lifted the cloth, dipped, squeezed the water back out in a gentle but firm twist, a strange and deep peace loosening shoulders and back he hadn’t known were tight.

The movements seemed familiar and for the life of him he couldn’t figure why. “What is that?” He may have been asking any number of things.

She glanced over her shoulder and back to the items in front of her. “It’s a wash basin. Antique, from when they didn’t have running water.” She turned to him and knelt, pressing the warm damp cloth to incredibly tender skin. He made a small sound and winced at the contact. She glanced up at him.

“S’pretty,” he said, looking at her. Her cheeks turned light pink and he realized what he’d said, looking into her eyes when he spoke. For a moment she held his gaze.

She looked back down at his side, gently patting the wound with damp cloth, voice just as gentle. “It was my Mamma’s.”

_Ain’t the only thing’s hers I’d bet._

He said nothing more and neither did she while she worked, pressing more of that floral ointment over the wound, the scent pungent and sharp and spicy-sweet. While she covered him with gauze and taped it with deft hands he relaxed, at ease in her presence and content to soak in whatever enjoyment he could from the surreal situation.

Because he was awake in a comfortable bed, eating homemade raspberry jam on toast made by a pretty young woman. Sure, she was there to tend to his wounds and yes it did hurt more than a bit but the painkillers were kicking in and he smelled like fuckin’ _flowers_ but there was a deadening numbness spreading as she finished the bandaging.

And he wasn’t sure when he’d _ever_ felt so damn good.

 


	6. A Stable-Wicket Creaked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience! And Thank you very much Teamtuttle! Who has been kind enough to find the time to beta-read for me. So, Thank you!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy.
> 
> Please don't shoot me for the ending.

Hours later he stood on the porch, watching while Hershel worked the fields and Beth was away in the barn, tending to the horses. The promise of the sunlit morning filled the sky, making it a bright burning blue that chased away the darkness of the evening prior until it was naught but a vanishing memory.

Beneath the glare everything was sharper-edged. The line of the roof of the barn. The light glaring off the tops of the vehicles near the shed, like spears of illuminance. Even the white-painted porch railing looked like it could cut if you placed your hand upon it.

He rested his hand there, bloodless, as he gazed over the yard. Sucking in the smoke of his cigarette, the last vestiges of the night clung to him in its haze like a desperate specter fading in the day. He wasn’t allowed to smoke in the house, of course.

Hershel was kind enough not to confine him to the guest room. He wasn’t allowed to do much of anything, however, with the condition he was in.

Looking down at Beth’s phone while he replayed the conversation in his mind, he noted how the little silver thing with a small charm dangling from one corner suited her as it never would him, a pale blue bead that sparkled as he turned it over. He gazed across the field at Hershel and wondered what the fuck he was going to do now.

 

_“I don’t care what you’ve been trying to do, Merle, I’m stuck here. The bike’s not gonna get me back now.”_

_“You got the rest of the gas money, right? Fix ‘er up an by the time it’s done I can send you some more money.”_

_“I’m not sure how far it’ll go to getting the parts I need. Th’ farmer here might let me stay and fix the bike –_ might _Merle, he wasn’t too keen on me staying the night as it was – but I doubt he’ll be okay with me staying longer.”_

_“Find somewhere to stay cheap.”_

_He sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Merle…what happened to the money you said was coming your way?”_

_“Ain’t here yet, Darylina. What? You expect me to fix this_ for _ya? You’re the one riding th’ bike when shit went down, this is on your fool ass little brother. Fix this shit and get my bike home.”_

 _“_ You’re _the one who asked me to get it for you.”_

 _“Yeah. I_ did _. Thought you could_ handle _it.”_

The line was dead. Daryl clenched his fist around the phone and breathed deeply, resisting the urge to throw Beth’s property across the lawn.

“Hey,” called a voice from behind him. He turned and found himself before the sister – Maggie? Maggie. – She was wearing jeans and a button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up, “You get ahold of your brother?”

“Yeah,” he said absently, trying to figure out how much to say to her.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, gotta figure somethin’ out. Merle can’t afford much right now, so…”

“You up for a little walkin'? C’mon you can help me out while I do some chores around here. Get you moving, maybe something’ll occur to ya.” She turned and walked back into the house and he watched her go. Before the door shut behind her, he caught at the handle and winced a little as he moved his arm, followed her inside.

She paused on her way to the kitchen and went on in. He sighed quietly and kept his pace, catching up to her on the back porch. It was well lit and free of clutter aside from a box beneath a small table and set of chairs, several windows enclosing the space. Maggie nudged open the screen door with her hip and tossed her head, urging him onward.

Together they walked out back and he found himself walking through a small garden. By small, it filled a square approximately fifteen feet across and went as far back as he could see. Which wasn’t far. They grew a smattering of vegetables and other things he couldn’t recognize but he was impressed all the same. Maggie led him down a rock-lined path in the center to a chicken coop and he reluctantly took the second bowl she handed to him, dreading plucking beaks.

“It’s not so bad if you’re quick,” she said as she went inside. He followed as he had been for several minutes.

“Your Dad okay with this?” he watched her reach beneath a hen and come up with an egg and copied her motions. Couldn’t be that hard could i –

His finger stung for a moment as the chicken took issue with him reaching beneath her proverbial skirt.

He pulled back his hand and swung it in the air, wincing – recognized he’d be doing a lot of that here – while he waited for the sting to ebb.

“Okay with what?” asked the farm-girl, “You helpin’ with chores? Staying the night? Refusing the hospital?” He looked at her and she reached, coming away victoriously with another egg plucked from the nest. She paused and met his eyes, her direct gaze a pale green-grey even in the dim lighting of the coop.

He found himself gritting his teeth against a rude retort. He divested a chicken of its egg and welcomed the sting as something to direct his irritation at, growled low in his throat and tried to focus on the task at hand.

“Look, I’m sorry you got hurt, Mr. Dixon, but it was a foolish thing to do, not going.”

He turned on her. “I ain’t no fool. D’ya think I wouldn’t’ve gone if I coulda?” He reached for another egg and came up with an empty fist as he shuffled up the row of box-nests.

“Don’t you take that tone with me, all I’m saying is you’re lucky if that doesn’t get infected, patch-job or not.”

“Did a good job.”

She paused for a beat. “What?”

“Your sister. She did a good job. Patching me up.” She was silent for a moment and he successfully retrieved an egg without getting his fingers pinched this time. “Hershel says it’s not showing signs of infection this morning.” He looked at the close ceiling for a moment and exhaled, struggling to keep his composure in front of a stranger.

“You okay?”

He opened his eyes, looked up at the ceiling then to her. The edges around her eyes were softer, her head tilted as one considering...something.

“I mean, other than the road-rash,” she waved a hand at him, up and down before re-settling on the bowl.

“Got ahold of my brother.” It was like an admission, one he’d avoided because he didn’t have any answers yet. She lifted her eyebrows. This wasn’t news but she read between the lines through the look that must’ve been on his face.

“He ain’t coming to get you, is he.” The deadpan delivery echoed the irritation in his chest, though her voice contained none. “Why the hell not? He’s your brother, isn’t he?”

“He’s a dick. Bike’s his, probably pissed it broke down.”

“He’s still your brother.”

“Yeah. He’s still a dick, too.”

“That bad, huh?” He shot her a look and went back to work. She was quiet for a moment, looking like she was struggling to find something to say. Wasn’t the most comfortable conversation but it beat talking to Hershel at the moment. “So, what now?”

“Not sure. Gotta get the bike fixed. Got some money with me. It might be enough to get the parts. Might.” He sighed heavily, stared at the chickens bewilderedly.

“And if not?”

“Guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

There was another silence as they continued to gather eggs. It wasn’t tense but he didn’t find himself exactly comfortable either.

 

 

They walked through the shading plants and vegetation behind the house and back inside. While Maggie went about her business he volunteered to put the eggs away in the fridge.

The kitchen was someplace he found himself most comfortable, though he couldn’t put his finger on why. It was nothing like he was used to, white walls and wooden counters, clean. Plants in jars of oil, plants hanging upside-down in the window to dry, the scent of herbs warming in the sunlight streaming through. It suffused the air, made the shadows in the interior nooks and crannies of the room normal. Comforting places of quiet solitude rather than lurking danger.

But it wasn’t just in the shadows. It was the light. The golden hues it brought out of the wood where it hit, the warmth it brought to the white paint on the walls. The warm tones in the appliances, the little touches around the room in a folded dish-towel, the small painting hanging near the door which led into the dining room.

Reluctantly feeling like an intruder, a wolf in sheep’s clothing in the borrowed jeans and shirt of the people who lived here, he crossed the threshold and moved about the kitchen. The cartons were where Maggie said they’d be, in the cupboard over the refrigerator. He took the dish-towel and wiped them out, rinsed the eggs and dried them, placed them in their cartons and into the refrigerator. If they had another cooler somewhere he wasn’t going to go looking for one.

Bad enough he was alone in their house.

He took his cigarettes and went back to the porch. The day still shone, brightness glaring from the white-topped truck next to the shed. Everything out here was hard edges and glaring light. It didn’t bother his eyes, not really. If he was honest with himself, he’d have to admit the place had a certain appeal.

Small flame licked the air and the end of his cigarette as he pulled in the toxic fumes. It was in self-defense, the light of day doing nothing to illuminate his plans.

The bike was the crux of the whole mess. He glanced over at the damned machine. He loved that bike. He hated it, hated Merle in that moment for once again abandoning him. If he could find out what was wrong with it, he could fix it himself one way or another and get himself out of here. Back into familiar territory.

As he walked to the edge of the fence where the bike was still leaning, he caught a flash of light out of the corner of his eye and turned. Beth was leading a horse out of the barn and into the adjoining corral. In the high morning sun, her hair gleamed, as did the horse and tack upon it. He slowed his steps for a few moments, taking in the young woman, pleased to focus his attention on another kind of horsepower.

Unfamiliar territory, indeed.

 

 

An hour later, at least the height and plod of the sun indicated such; he was elbow-deep into the machine and nowhere near figuring out the source of the problem. Several parts were carefully laid around him, suddenly reminding himself of a child building a fort.

“Mr. Dixon,” called a stern voice. He looked up and found Hershel approaching from the field, his son close behind. “Better not be getting anything on those bandages. Find what you were looking for?”

He shook his head, “Nah. Damn thing,” he caught the irritated glance and considered giving enough of a shit to clean up his language in front of the man, “ain’t tellin’ me what’s what. I suspect it’s the carburetor but I’ll need tools to get further into it and get it figured out. Probably replace the damn thing. Still no idea why the fu- why it threw me last night.”

“Maggie said you got in touch with your brother?”

He hesitated on a breath, let it out slow and looked out across the field. He still hadn’t been able to come up with any answers. “Yeah, I did.”

“She didn’t sound like it went very well.”

“No, it didn’t.” he looked Hershel in the eye. The man’s eyebrows were raised in the face of a man whose patience was tried. “He ain't comin.’ I’ll need t’ figure out what went wrong, fix the bike myself and get replacement parts. I’ll walk into town here shortly and see if I can’t find a place t’ stay.”

Hershel snorted. “You paying for all that by yourself?”

“Merle’ll have some cash to help by next week.”

“Oh, so you’re gonna rely on the brother who flaked on you to pull through? Got the money to pay for room and board for a week and buy spare parts? That sounds like a solid plan.” The sarcasm was laced through the words and tempered with exasperation. Daryl’s ears pinked as his mouth drew a thin line across his face, the only vent to his frustration. He opened his mouth to speak but Hershel talked over him.

“Now, I know what’s available in town and I know how far it is: you walk that and you’ll find yourself staying the night on a curb and hiking back at midnight. No, I’ll get you a ride in my truck.”

“How the hell d'ya know what I got n’ what I don’t?” Hershel speared him with a look he probably reserved for his children and he fought the urge to glare at the man.

“You can’t afford health insurance, son. I doubt you could afford a cheap motel _and_ repair that there machine. What do you do for a living, anyway?”

“Odd jobs, where I can get ‘em. M’ a good mechanic.”

“The bike’s yours?” He glanced over and flushed at the paraphernalia marking the infernal thing, knew what Hershel was asking with his pointed look.

“No,” he said firmly, offended at the thought, “it’s m’ brothers. Ain’t like him.”

Hershel looked at him for a long moment, studying him. He shifted beneath the man’s piercing gaze but held it. He didn’t belong here. This was the Greene family farm, he was an intruder. Stole up in the night and only wanted to use a damn phone. Speaking of which –

Daryl lifted Beth’s phone out of his pocket and raised it to the man. “Here, this’s Beth’s.”

There was no move to take it from him, only further silent study in the glare of the sun. The celestial orb shifted further, made Daryl squint a little as it struck his eyes like a beam from the farmer’s own head. “I’ve gotta get in the house, get cleaned up. You go give it to her; she’s over in the barn. Come see me before you leave for town.” He blinked at the farmer as he walked away without another word.

 

 

The barn door stood wide open and he blinked as his eyes adjusted to the shadowed interior. The scent of hay was fairly strong and while he expected manure as accompaniment, all he could smell was hay and grass. He stepped further inward, scanning the interior. There were two stalls that held horses, one a dark grey and the other a deep chestnut. He had no idea what type they might be as they reached their heads over the stall doors to look him over.

Again he felt like an intruder.

He heard a whickering in the opposite stalls and cautiously walked forward. He heard a soft scraping sound and was followed by softer humming. He looked into the first stall and found it empty. Further ahead, the last stall door was ajar and over the edge of the previous he spotted her.

She was moving around the horse with confidence, humming some tune even he found lulling as she stroked a brush over the animal’s coat. From the hay-loft sunlight streaked down and struck the stalls interior, brightening the whole of the area, though the warm glow could have just been her.

The horse was pale beige with a golden mane and tail that seemed to suit Beth perfectly, complimenting her own hair. Listening to the tune, it struck him as familiar. Like a scent barely there or something just at the corner of his vision. There, but once he focused on it, gone.

So he listened. As he did the world grew dim, less solid and fell away like a dream. In the following haze he imagined another place, another time better suited to the rhythm of her voice, the wordless song which was somehow alien and yet so familiar. In this timeless place he still watched –

 _As she brushed his stallion, a dark headstrong animal, which of course, she had tamed to her touch. She wore a linen chemise beneath a brown overdress which hung to the floor. He knew her by the timbre of her voice, the song she hummed, the dark fall of her hair. He smiled, remembering the first time he’d seen her, hair bound in braids and ribbon, dancing among the folk of the town. How her dark eyes had sparkled when_ –

A small shriek broke his reverie and he looked at Beth, her blue eyes wide, palm pressed to her chest as she faced him, small smile playing with her lips as she fought to catch her breath.

“Jesus, Daryl! Make some noise, why don’t you?” Her laugh caught the tail of her words and made them breathy as she looked up at him.

“Sorry.” He realized he’d been staring, likely looking like a creep in the process. No wonder she’d been startled. “I – um – thanks for lettin’ me borrow your phone.” Raising his arm to hand it to her, she stared at him a moment and paused. The look in her eyes shifted, grew distant and somehow focused at the same time. Focused upon him, as though she were seeing not through him, but into him.

Taking a step forward, she moved past his arm, almost brushing his chest. He could feel the warmth emanating from her, she was so close. Her eyes, a deeper blue than before, pierced him to the spot. Couldn't move. Could only stand helplessly and feel in some distant part of his mind as though he were falling. Falling into her eyes.

There were questions in her eyes. Certainty. A touch of both fear and wonder he was certain reflected in his. As though she’d found whatever she was searching for, he watched those emotions drift away as if on a current to be replaced by recognition and confusion.

They were close enough, he could kiss her. The thought startled him, though not enough to make him step away. Her breath wafted his chin. So close. Hard on the heels of that revelation he blushed. His gut roiled as his heart beat faster. She was a stranger, he had no business with her. And yet…

And yet. Somewhere between her tune and his reverie he realized her presence was more than comfortable: she was _familiar_. So familiar, he nearly ached with it. A face he recognized though he’d never seen her before last night. He would have remembered her, he was sure of it.

 “How,” she whispered, “do I know you?”


End file.
